


Too Many Johns: A Journey Through the Wasteland

by Picklebrine



Category: H.Bomberguy, LeftTube, The Beatles (Band), The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: AU where islands don't exist, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, But it is good I promise, Crack, Crack Crossover, Divergentesque Sorting, Except its based on music, Gen, Ironic Sexism, Jimi Arlo Ray Lou Stevie and Donovan are a roving gang, Kidnapping, LeftTube References, M/M, Neuroscience Major Charlie Watts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plain Oats, Post-Apocalypse, Pressure Cooker, Pressure Cooker Theft (Attempted), Ringo Boobs AU, Roger Waters War Criminal AU, Sock Fire, Straight Man Writing Women Energy is Evoked, because I Respect Them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26501674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Picklebrine/pseuds/Picklebrine
Summary: At 13, all men are sorted by their musical proficiency: Drummer, Singer, Guitarist, Bassist, and Lesser Musician, and placed in a housing unit together. When two drummers get the idea in their head to kidnap men from the other sections, there's no stopping them. Keith Moon and Ringo Starr don't know what they're getting themselves into, and John and John will have their pound of flesh.(Cowritten by Myself and an Anon user)
Relationships: John Entwistle/Keith Moon, John Lennon/John Entwhistle, John Lennon/Ringo Starr, Pete Townshend/Shutting Up, Ringo Starr/Keith Moon
Kudos: 10





	1. The Drums of War

Keith sat down, next to the fire, and began scarfing down his plain oats, delicious plain oats. He had shaggy onyx hair, bushy and expressive eyebrows over sunken burnt sienna eyes, and a handsome nose. He and his buddy, roommate and almost doppelganger Ringo were scheming.

“So, we gonna kidnap John, innit?”

“If tha’s what you want, bruv”

“Yea, e’s so sexy mate, tall drink o’ water”

“Alrigh, firs’ thing t’morrow, innit?” 

“Wha ava you say, bruv” Keith finished his scrumptious plain oats and crawled from the fire over to the mattress in the corner. There were four people shapes in the bed already. Four people, actually, not just people shapes. Ginger Baker, a red-headed, party animal who did all the cooking in the flat, was closest to the wall. Then, there was John Bonham, a thick, mustached dark-haired creep who was cuddled close to Ginger, then Nick Mason, a chestnut-haired DILF in a Stetson cuddled up to Charlie “Chuck” Watts, who was straight-up pretty chill. Keith snuggled in, struggling to fit on the twin-sized mattress. He began to doze but was knocked from his rest when Ringo stage dived on top of the pile, mimicking a guitar riff with his large idiot mouth. A chorus of shouts and yells came from beneath him, but his weighty form kept any of them from escaping, just as it would prevent John from escaping when they later… brought him home very legally. They all fell asleep, comforted by the warmth of their mates in the cold, sparse (except for the many broken space heaters) room. 

Ginger woke up first, warm and kinda sweaty, with Bonham plastered to his side, equally sweaty and considerably less awake. The familiar stench of Ringo’s sleep sweats (different from his drumming sweats or his oat sweats) was overwhelming Ginger’s nose. He struggled, but the vice of Bonham and the dead weight of Ringo kept him pinned. Then, as he did every morning, Nick began making aeroplane noises, and kicked Bonham in the back. Bonham jolted awake, and flailed about, waking Nick in the process, who continued to make aeroplane noises. This was Charlie’s alarm clock, programmed directly into Nick’s brain, through intensive cognitive behavior therapy and prolific drinking. Charlie, the only one with any kind of brain cell left, had a sense of routine and kicked Keith directly in the nuts, the only surefire way to wake him up. Keith’s immediate howls of pain woke Ringo, who required the equivalent of three airhorns in his face to kick his brain into action, and groggily said

“Roit, wha’s all this then?” to which he received a smattering of groans and shouts, as the rest of the boys attempted to get out of bed. Ringo, never one to take a cue, continued to be confused.

“Ringo, mate, get tha fuck offa us” Charlie said, calmly.

“Bregfis?” Ringo asked hopefully

“Only if Ginger can ge’ out ta make th’ oats, y’prat,” Keith howled, still in pain. Ringo, only capable of acting if given direct commands, due to Charlie’s intensive cognitive behavior therapies, finally moved off the bed, and began to add more fuel to the fire. Bonham had recently worn holes in his socks, and they had been added to the sock fuel pile, which had steadily grown over the past few weeks as Keith chewed up more and more of the socks in the flat, due to the distress of planning John’s kidnapping. The fire reared its head again, and Ginger exited the ‘room’. In truth, the different ‘rooms’ of the flat were separated only by sheets hung from the ceiling by nails Ginger had pounded in to draw the fabric taut. Ginger had walked into the Drum Room, which was the only room in the flat with any kind of working electrical, and yelled.

“HARRIS, WOT IN THA ROIT FUCK D’YA THINK YER DOIN’?” which was met with a yelp of surprise, and a spluttered attempt at explanation

“I-I though’ tha’ I-I could- I could m-mmake th’oats t’day?” Said their sixth roommate, Harris "Harry" Brewis, (born 19 September 1992), better known as Harris Bomberguy or Hbomberguy for short, an English YouTuber and Twitch streamer, who produces video essays on a variety of topics such as film, television, and video games, often combining them with arguments from left-wing political and economic positions.

“THA’S M’PRESSURE COOKER, MATE, Y’DON TOUCH ANOTHER MAN’S PRESSURE COOKER!”

“I’m sorray, I should’ve read my sources on that one. But, reaaly, I was only goin’ ta use it to make sonic curry,” Harris "Harry" Brewis, (born 19 September 1992), better known as Harris Bomberguy or Hbomberguy for short, an English YouTuber and Twitch streamer, who produces video essays on a variety of topics such as film, television, and video games, often combining them with arguments from left-wing political and economic positions, pleaded

“LADS, WE GOT A PRESSURE COOKER THIEF. GET’IM” And at Ginger’s command, the legions of the classic rock drummer survivalists lunged forth at Harris "Harry" Brewis, (born 19 September 1992), better known as Harris Bomberguy or Hbomberguy for short, an English YouTuber and Twitch streamer. They were howling with rage at the despicable thief. 

“Socialism’s Schewpid!” Ringo shouted, waving a British flag and desperately wanting to fuck the Queen. 

“I respectfully disagree with Ringo, but I will still maul th’fuck outta ya!” Nick added, as the horde of rabid drummers descended on the not-long-for-this-world Harris "Harry" Brewis, (born 19 September 1992), better known as Harris Bomberguy or Hbomberguy for short, an English YouTuber and Twitch streamer. They beat him horribly, and I will not suffer you with the details of the nature of their violence. Once they had finished their deed, and Harris lay wheezing and bleeding on the floor of the Drum Room, Ginger replaced the pressure cooker and loudly poured in a large portion of oats and two pints of goat's milk, harvested from the Roof Goat, Betsy. The rest of the boys dragged Harris "Harry" Brewis, (born 19 September 1992), better known as Harris Bomberguy or Hbomberguy for short, out of the room and lay him next to the door of his room, too respectful of his space to open the door. They scampered back, Bonham and Keith on all fours, and waited like begging dogs for their daily ration of plain oats. Ginger had Keith do tricks for the other boys, such as “roll-over”, “sit”, “fetch”, and “eliminate waste on command”. Keith was the best at the tricks, but Ringo and Bohnam tried their hands at a few as well. About 30 minutes later, the oats were complete. The lads went mad.


	2. The Wacky Mix Up

Ringo and Keith were scarfing down the last of their breakfast oats when they had a simultaneous epiphany. They were to kidnap John today. Keith began to prepare a net, and set out a bowl for John to use in the secret room, the only room besides Harris’ to have a door and walls, and spread out some blankets he’d secretly collected. John was going to live in luxury. Ringo had asked Keith to put a monopoly board, which Keith did, as he had one already for when Pattie Boyd came over for game night, but he found it odd, as he didn’t think John was much of a monopoly person. Keith grabbed another net for Ringo, in case one man proved insufficient, and gave the signal to head out. 

Ringo arrived first, having left a few minutes before Keith as to not arouse suspicion, and scouted out the Singer’s flat. It, unfairly, seemed bigger from where Ringo was perched on the outside scaffolding. To escape from the Drummer’s flat, he’d had to force open the bathroom window, and scurry up the side of the building. Inside, he saw John, and two blonde curly haired men that he couldn’t be arsed to put names to. They sat on a strangely shaped mattress, with a strange pattern of colored and oddly stuffed looking fabric, with strange, smaller mattress-like objects placed upon it, which was akin to the stool the drummers had for drumming. The floor shined and the walls didn’t have the strange striped drip stains. The windows weren’t caked with dirt and grime, which was a problem Ringo hadn’t considered in his planning, and this revealed him as he clung to the top of the window frame. The two blonde men were dressed exactly alike, and seemed upset about this fact, arguing about who would have to change. Ringo didn’t see the problem, even if the leather fringed vest and tight leather pants were a garish choice, he and the lads all wore the same plain white jumpsuits with their names embroidered over their left chest. 

Ringo kicked in the window with his good-sized body, and glass shattered all over the clean floor. Both blonde men screamed, and dove for cover behind the weird mattress. John, however, looked pleased to see Ringo.

“Ringo! I aint seen you since we was lads!” John grinned “Wha’re you doin’ here, mate?”

“Kidnappin’ ya, John, I hope y’don’ mind t’much,”

“Oh no, no’ a’ all, mate,” John said, and Ringo scooped him up in the net and slung him over his shoulder “Well, Tha’s jus’ the bee’s knees innit?,” Ringo grabbed one of the small mattress-like objects and and had John hold it.

“Itsa bit’o’ a rough ride back, mate, hol’ on tight,” With that, Ringo crawled back out the window, like a gecko of crime, and up the outside of the building back to the flat.

Meanwhile, Keith had crawled up two floors, to the Bassist’s Flat, where he was hiding behind a potted fern, waiting for John to walk by so he could knock him out with the handle of the net and then carry him back down to the flat. The Bassists were a surprisingly quiet bunch, and didn’t seem to engage much, though the occasional yell was heard from a barred off room which he assumed was Paul McCartney’s. It didn’t take long, John being the wandering sort when he had a spanner in the works, and Keith eagerly waited as he heard the heavy steps of John down the hallway. Just a moment longer and- WHAM!

Keith was struck upside the head by a rolling pin, and fell unconscious. John scoffed “Wha’ kinda wuss goes down on hit one? Paul always puts up a fight” and sat Keith up to examine him further. A hesitant moment passed, as John hoped he was wrong about his initial impression, and then he sighed “Aw fuck, I can’t believe I’ve done this”

John walked back to the kitchen, replaced the pin on the counter next to his half finished sugar cookies, untied his carnal apron depicting a nude woman, set it aside, and returned to Keith, both amused and befuddled. 

“Wot was e doin’ in mah flat?” He wondered aloud, poking Keith’s cheek. “And why’s ‘e look so familiar” John pondered on this for a moment, then startled

“Keith! Aw, fuck, s’mah old mate, Keith!” He sat him up, carefully and steadily, and checked nervously to see if he was still alive. He had a pulse, and John could hear him breathing 

“Thank fuckin Christ,” he sighed “I don’ know what I woulda done if y’were dead,” letting some of the tension fall from his shouders, John placed a hand on his chest, relieved he had not just murdered his old pal. He picked him up, bridal style, and went to the front door.

“LADS, I’LL BE OUT” he shouted, opening the front door and making his way towards the elevator, and pressed the button. Not long after, the elevator arrived, doors opening to reveal the operator, Kit Lambert. He’d had the elevator installed as he had been too scared of the stairs, and so now he operated as a day job.

“‘Ello, uh, Kit, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know, it has its ups and downs,” Kit laughed, John did not. The laughing faded away, and Kit began to fidget nervously with the elevator controls. “Where to, Johnny?” 

“Two down.” John said, adjusting his hold on Keith. Kit gulped, but said nothing as he moved the elevator down. John stared at him, not entirely unlike a victim in a ransom video, uncomfortable, tired and all together rather put out. The passage of time stretched, and felt to John as though it had been hours. The doors opened, Kit stepped aside to allow John the room to carry Keith out, and hastily shut the door behind them. John walked down the hall, and watched for the Drummer’s flat. 

John found the right door after realizing that the sheet hanging from the ceiling was actually hiding it. John had never learned to count, and he couldn’t extrapolate from the doors surrounding the sheet to get a number, and instead figured it must be a maintenance shaft of some sort, something unseemly at the least. He pulled the fabric away after his third pass, finally realizing it was where a door should be, and saw the picture of the drums.

“Fuckin ‘ell, finally, why’d you lot ‘ide your bloody door?” He said, to the unconscious Keith, and knocked heavily. A moment passed, and he heard a scramble on the other side. 

“Aw, fuck, I’ve gotta visitor Olly, I’ll be roit back t’streamin,” John heard, muffled through the walls. He waited, and waited, and finally the door opened, revealing Harris "Harry" Brewis, (born 19 September 1992), better known as Harris Bomberguy or Hbomberguy for short, an English YouTuber and Twitch streamer, who produces video essays on a variety of topics such as film, television, and video games, often combining them with arguments from left-wing political and economic positions. John smiled, somewhat bashful, being as he had Keith in his arms. 

“Hey, Harry, I uh, found one’a yer lads,” John said after a short contemplation. 

“Aw, hell, He got out tha window again,” Harris "Harry" Brewis, (born 19 September 1992), better known as Harris Bomberguy or Hbomberguy for short said. “I’ll take you back ta the room, John”

“Thanks Harry, I know they’re a roit lot a’trouble for ya,” John carried Keith into the flat, glancing around to see the familiar kitchen, den, and the doors to the bath, spare room, which had since become a gaming cove, and the bedroom. The door into the Drummer’s room was made of metal, and barred from the outside. Harris "Harry" Brewis, (born 19 September 1992), better known as Harris Bomberguy or Hbomberguy went about the intricate process of unlocking it, lifting the bar and letting John through.

“John, knock pop goes the weasel when y’want out,”

“A’course, Harry,”John slipped in, carefully. The central space was dominated by a drum set. There were two sheets painted like doors, one which led into the makeshift bathroom, and one which led to the Drummer’s bedroom. John took the one which led to the bedroom. He felt a sense of dread when he realized he didn’t see any of the Drummers, and wondered where they were hiding. Paranoia set in as he put Keith down gingerly on the mattress. Where could they be? Charlie was usually on him like a leech on a leg by now. He heard a shift from the direction of the bathroom. He whirled around ready to face the threat, but was met with darkness as the fire was doused, suddenly filling the room with smoke and blocking out any chance of seeing. John screamed, and felt a sharp pain on the back of his head, and he was falling. 


	3. Sticky Soup Situation

He awoke again in darkness, and as such wasn’t even sure he was awake. Everything was as solid black as if it had been painted that way, and the silence surrounding him was deafening. A lantern lit, and there was John Lennon, just as confused and disorientated. Keith and Ringo sat by the light, staring directly at John. 

“‘Ello, mate” they said in unison

“Uh, ‘ello” John said. Keith and Ringo smiled, and held out a bowl full of oats. They were uncooked, as Ringo and Keith didn’t know how to operate the pressure cooker. Neither John took the bowl. 

“Take it.” Keith said

“Why… wot kinda poison’s in it?” John retorted

“The none kind” Ringo said “We wouldn’t poison our best mates!”

“A-Alroit, I… Suppose it ain’t going ta’ hurt then” John took it, and shakily took a few oats from the bowl, placing them in his overeager mouth, desperate from hunger, and averse to the food provided. He tensely swallowed, and sat in the deadly silence, eyes darting from Keith and Ringo, back to the bowl, trembling.

“Take more, ain’t ye ‘ungry?” The kidnappers said

“N-No, thank ye, I’m, I’m perfectly ok, ain’t ‘ardly hungry at all”

“TAKE THE OATS, JOHN!” John flinched, and dove back in for another handful of oats, tears beginning to brim at his eyes. He couldn’t cry, not in front of John, he had to stay strong, and eat the oats.

A few days passed, cramped in the small, dark closet space, and the Johns began to realize just how dire the situation truly was. The walls were lined with what appeared to be tinfoil, lit by blacklights. One entire wall was covered, almost entirely, with safety pins, and around the ceiling were flashing green and red lights, going on one second intervals. They had dry oats for every meal, out of the same bowl from the first day. John seems always on the verge of tears, but keeps a tough upper lip for John. They are eating, silently.

“Oi, Johnny boy, oi’ve gotta gift for ye” Keith calls, excitedly.

“I don’ want your shite, Keith” John bit out in response

“Johnny, don’t be a bitch,”

“Fine” Keith shoved a loosely wrapped object into John’s hands, and watched eagerly as he unwrapped it.

“Oh… it’s French onion soup (French: soupe à l’oignon) a type of soup usually based on meat stock and onions, and often served gratinéed with croutons and cheese on top of a large piece of bread. Although ancient in origin, the dish underwent a resurgence of popularity in the 1960s in the United States due to a greater interest in French cuisine. French onion soup is usually served as a starter.”

“Isn’t it lovely?”

“I- well It would be if it was in a bowl or somefhin’! it’s jus’ loose and dripping everywhere! How did ye even wrap this? Dear lord, Keith…”

John stood bewildered, covered in soup and cheese, while other John, hungrier and far more desperate, licked the pooling broth off the carpeted floor. Ringo nudged him away, and gestured to the floor, looking expectantly at John

“Well? Ain’t ye gonna eat your present?”

“Y-You want… me to lick it off the floor?”

“S’good soup, Johnny, don’ waste it” John slowly, reluctantly, sunk to his hands and knees, and began lapping at the pool of cold soup. Ringo watched, revolted and shocked. He hadn't expected John to follow the directive. The other John soon joined the first and it wasn’t long before the soup was all gone


	4. Hey Hey We're the Micky

Now, Dear reader, you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this horrid tale. It is I, Micky Dolenz. I was once a drummer, ever so long ago. I lived in that apartment with those men, those monsters. Memories of that time are unbelievably painful, but beloved reader, I must relay my experiences to you as warning.

To understand this we have to go back, back to the day of my exile.

It was a blustery winter day, more blustery than usual. The frigid wind blew through the windows making Ringo's GINORMOUS NIPPLES visible because he has MASSIVE BOOBS, I mean some SERIOUS HONKERS. A real SET of BADONKERS. PACKIN’ some DOBONHONKEROS. MASSIVE DOHOONKABHANKOLOOS. BIG OL’ TONHONGERKOOGERS. 

I had seen them before, we drummers are a communal bunch, we share our meals, our bed, our hearts and souls with each other, Ringo’s sizable tits were nothing new to me, but the gale coming in from the window was causing them to grow, his sexy nips pressing against the thin fabric of his drummer jumpsuit, the monogrammed name bulging outwards. The first few buttons were undone, and Ringo’s luxurious mane framed his fine features. He turned to me, tits bouncing against each other like jello, and smiled, invitingly. Now, Ringo had never been my type, I was heavy into chicks with proper cake, and Ringo’s flat as hell in the ass, but the invitation was thrilling. Ringo had outlawed masturbation, and I was getting mad horny, cooped up with the other sexy drummers. 

“Ringo, do you wish to engage in premarital coitus, because your benevolent breasts are strikingly alluring”

“Wh-What, Mickard,I-”

“I don’t wish to offend, kind sir, I just have been in desperate need of release, my cock is throbbing rn”

“Are you not savin’ y’self for th’ Lord?”

“The lord? Christ, Ricky Dicky Daddy, you some kind of christian? God is not real, science is the true path to enlightenment.”

“Why, Mickard Dolenz, I wouldn’ ‘ave expected this kinda behavior from a fellow drummah”

“Whaddaya gonna do about it, Mister Pope Man? Kick me out?”

And he did. I was thrown into the cold, cruel world, removed from my haven of music and brotherhood. I was oatless, drumless, fireless, with no hope of ever surviving on my own. All around the towering apartment complex is bleak wasteland, empty desert stretched as far as the eye can see, rolling dunes and yellowed sky. The skeleton of a city surrounded the base of the tower, which itself was several miles high and thousands of feet across. I had heard tales, when I was a young lad, in the Lads Room, of the roving bands of criminal deviant freaks. Supposedly, there were even  _ women  _ in the wastes, a fact which haunts me to this very day. I have encountered only a scattered few, and have each time feared for my life. 

You may be wondering how I indeed survived, given my bleak prognosis. The answer is simple, if not horrifying. I have fallen in with one of the deviant gangs, a bunch of incorrigible fools who believe that sorting is disdainful. I quickly had to adjust to a most revolting way of life, taking regular showers, eating wild game and forage, I even had to discard my precious jumpsuit, after it became a burdensome marker of status. I have been among these strange folk for a very long time, and have grown an affection for each of these strange rebels. Donovan has many fantastic unconventional instruments, Arlo and Ray are leftist icons, Jimi is just a well rounded dude, Lou has a girlfriend AND a boyfriend, and Stevie, well, I prefer to avoid Stevie, she is a  _ woman  _ after all. This ragtag bunch have kept me fed and clothed, and mostly sheltered, and trained me in the ways of the wasteland man. 

In recent times, a most strange occurrence has descended on our merry band. A wayward John fell upon our doorstep, brutalized and downtrodden. He had been taken, by my despicable former roommates, Ringo and Keith. Dear reader when I tell you I felt rage unlike that of any man before me, do I mean it. Poor John was disheveled, he had lost his lover, John, in the tumult of his escape. They had grown close, during their time in the Secret Chamber, lost and afraid, having only each other. Alas, in the mad scramble of freedom, John was defenestrated, thrown to his presumed doom, and left John on his own, grieving and guilty. 

And so, John appeared on our doorstep, sobbing out his woeful tale, and I, dear reader, listened most intently. I take down these notes as a caution; the drummers cannot be trusted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kinda short lads, but. Celery as the french say <3
> 
> Updates will happen I SWEAR we r just depressed <3


End file.
